


Shadow and Sunlight

by SweetSorcery



Category: Dawn of the Dead (1978)
Genre: 1970s, Alternate Canon, Angst, Apocalypse, Best Friends, Depression, First Kiss, Grief, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non-canon Character Death, Zombies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-30
Updated: 2009-12-30
Packaged: 2017-10-05 11:48:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/41444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SweetSorcery/pseuds/SweetSorcery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After they lose Frannie, everything changes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shadow and Sunlight

It's been nearly a month since they lost Frannie.

It happened just a few days after they'd taken the mall, hunted down and stored away all the zombies inside. Or so they'd thought.

There was no reason to think it wouldn't be safe for her to go downstairs by herself to get some clothes, perfume, make-up, jewellery... girl things. Stephen had offered to go with her, of course, but she'd wanted to be alone for a bit, just play around, away from the boys.

When she wasn't back yet after two hours, they went down to look for her; it didn't take long, because to let them have her go alone, she'd had to promise to stick to the department store. There was a thin trail of blood leading into the cosmetics department, and then they found one of them, one they must have missed somehow, one who must have got inside the store before they'd last locked it up.

Stephen was frantic, running around screaming Fran's name, and they were terrified of what they might find.

Peter turned the thing on its back and Roger hissed in a breath. It was just a girl, a teenager, and there was a pair of long, serrated scissors lodged in its right eye. The blood on the floor was the zombie's, not Fran's.

The initial collective sigh of relief didn't last long though, because when Stephen found her, heaving in breaths as she sat against the edge of a store table, she was clutching her arm, her face distorted with pain. Blood was leaking over and into the thick material of her sweater, only a few drops were on the floor. It was just a small bite. No worse than it might have been had she been bitten by a little dog.

But it was the end for Fran, and all of them - even flyboy - knew it. He fussed over her for the next two days, ignoring her mad outbursts, soothing her, trying to talk her down from them.

Roger was as nice as he could be, taking care of the food for everyone, bringing up anything they needed, and especially anything Frannie asked for.

Peter was the only one who knew about the medical stuff. He fixed her up as best he could. He was good at it, injecting her with antibiotics for the inevitable infection, and morphine for the pain, and cleaning the wound which refused to heal.

But two days were all Frannie had, because weakened from the blood loss and the pregnancy, she couldn't fight. Didn't really want to. She told Stephen so just before she died. Told him not to blame himself, that it had been her own fault for insisting on going alone, that no one could have known, and most of all, she really didn't mind.

"Really, Stephen," she said, breathing with an effort as he held her. "It's the end anyway. Not just of us, and you know things were over between us a long time ago."

He hadn't known. Hadn't wanted to know. He held her tighter, crying into her hair as she kept breaking his heart.

"All over, Stephen. And this place... it's just a prison. So I guess I'm the lucky one." And then she was gone.

* * *

That's when Stephen stopped talking. Stopped doing anything. He didn't resist when Roger ushered him downstairs, sat down with him by the small fountain, one arm slung around his shoulders to hold him together while Stephen just sat there, staring at his hands and trembling.

Peter stayed upstairs, did what had to be done when Fran came back a couple of hours later, then wrapped her in a blanket and carried her downstairs. He lay her down by the planted area and walked out to where Roger could see him.

Roger gave him a nod, then squeezed Stephen's shoulder. "It's time to say goodbye, Stephen."

Stephen wasn't moving, didn't even acknowledge the words, and Roger had to pull him up and guide him along to where Peter was waiting with the body, just across from one of Frannie's favourite stores.

Stephen just watched as Peter and Roger dug a grave there and gently lowered Frannie into it. He looked on, unblinkingly, when they covered her with soil and loose leaves - fake ones, just used for decoration when things had still been normal.

Maybe he knew that Roger was beside him as they looked down at the fresh grave, that Roger was rubbing his back in gentle, soothing rotations. Maybe he knew that when Peter stood on his other side, close enough for their arms to touch... maybe he knew they did it to hold him together, keep him from losing it. But chances were, he had no idea they were there at all.

* * *

Stephen didn't lose it. Not outwardly. They were both worried that at some point, he'd suddenly snap back into reality and would realize what had happened and that he'd go nuts. Start downstairs, let all those things in, laughing like a madman.

"He's gonna snap, buddy," Peter whispered one evening when he sat with Roger at the dining table. They both looked to Stephen at the other end of the room, just staring at the static on the TV.

"We gotta do something," Roger hissed. "He can't keep going like this. And I don't know about you, but _I'm_ about ready to snap having to keep a constant watch on him, never knowing when it's going to hit him."

"I hear you, brother."

Roger sighed. "Any ideas?"

Peter looked at him. Had been hoping, truth be told, that Roger might have some, having known flyboy so much longer than he had. "We've got to make him see how things are, Rog. He doesn't even know she's dead. Doesn't _wanna_ know."

"We've taken him to her grave almost every day," Roger said, shaking his head sadly. "We've tried talking to him about it, but he just stares like we're talking a different language."

"We are," Peter said, surprisingly. "That's it, man." He looked suddenly enthusiastic about something. Eager. He put his hand over Roger's on the table top, squeezed, then pulled his hand back quickly. But his eyes didn't leave Roger's.

Roger was intrigued. And his hand tingled. "What are you cooking up, buddy?" Leaning forward, close enough to feel the warmth of Peter's breath on his face, he listened to the plan.

* * *

They started slowly, realizing it would only jolt and confuse Stephen to have them suddenly try and include him when they'd pretty much avoided and humoured him in the past - something they both felt more than a little guilty about.

Roger knew what his old friend's favourite meal was, so Peter cooked it the next day - or something as close to it as they could manage without fresh supplies.

Stephen mechanically ate the tinned roast beef and tinned peas and instant mashed potatoes and instant gravy. They followed that up with whipped banana cream - Roger couldn't imagine how Peter had made that, but then he was no whiz in the kitchen. And it didn't matter, because at least Stephen ate something, which had been a pretty hard thing to make him do lately.

Peter and Roger thought it counted as a minor triumph.

Next they moved some furniture. Figured that a change of scene - as far as that was possible for them - might be good. They sat Stephen down in the lounge and went and moved his and Frannie's bed across the room and facing another way. Then they changed the bed linen to something Roger had grabbed earlier - green was supposed to be soothing, he told Peter.

"All right," Peter said. "Can't hurt. Unless he hates green."

Roger smiled. "I think I'll go get a different lampshade too."

When they steered Stephen into his bedroom to show him the changes they'd made, he didn't talk, but he looked surprised. Not annoyed, thankfully. Just... surprised. And that was a reaction at least, so Peter and Roger figured they were getting somewhere.

They got a bit ambitious then. The next day, Peter was hauling a basketball hoop upstairs, and Roger was hot on his heels with a basketball under each arm.

"Hey buddy, come shoot some hoops with us on the roof?" Roger called out to Stephen, who once again sat staring at the static on the TV.

Stephen looked at him blankly for a moment, then shook his head and looked back at the TV.

Roger's shoulders dropped, and Peter set the hoop down. He walked up to Roger and squeezed his shoulder. They exchanged a sad look, shrugged, and sat down with Stephen to watch the static.

Roger came up with board games next. They set up Monopoly that night, installed Stephen at the table, and put a huge bowl of chips in front of him.

He didn't touch the chips, but the game wasn't a bad idea, because as it turned out, both Peter and Roger were terrible at it, while Stephen excelled. This got the odd almost-smile from him, which made them both a lot happier than winning might have done. At one point, Stephen actually half-heartedly demanded money from Peter verbally rather than by holding out his hand or the appropriate card.

In response, Peter whooped with joy and slapped Stephen on the back.

Stephen smiled a little.

And Roger grinned like a lunatic.

That night, Stephen slept all the way through for the first time in weeks.

And Peter and Roger spent most of that night talking. They were gonna do this. It was working. They were making plans, including Stephen. They sat real close, touching along the whole length of their bodies, whispering their plans to each other so they wouldn't wake Stephen in the other room. It was nice to be getting somewhere. And nice to be so close. Really, really nice. And they both felt it.

When they finally fell asleep, Roger dropping off with his head against Peter's shoulder in utter exhaustion, it was almost morning, and they ended up sleeping in, their bodies tangled up in a way that made them both exchange embarrassed little smiles on waking.

* * *

The sun was high up above the skylight, hitting them scare in the eyes, and they got up and dressed quickly. And then they realized that Stephen wasn't there.

"Shit!" Roger grabbed two of the rifles off the wall and enough ammo to take down most of the things outside in the car park, while hoping they were still out there.

Peter cursed under his breath, armed himself as well, and minutes later, they were both running through the mall - the thankfully completely deserted mall.

They relaxed a little, just calling out to Stephen, wherever he was.

"Hey, door's not locked," Roger pointed to Penney's top floor entrance.

"Okay, buddy. Let's go in and split up?"

"You got it. I'll go downstairs." Roger ran down the main aisle, past the menswear, looking left and right and calling out to Stephen. He kept going to the escalator and ran down it, then past the hardware and into the furniture area.

Stephen was sitting hunched over on a deep red sofa before a fake fire-place.

Roger approached him cautiously, wishing they'd had the foresight to take the walkie talkies down with them. But he figured Peter would find them soon enough.

"Stephen? Hey man, you all right?" he asked, walking up to his oldest friend and sitting down next to him gingerly as if dealing with a skittish animal.

At first, Stephen didn't react at all. Then, so softly Roger hardly heard him, he whispered, "Frannie's gone."

Roger sighed. "Yeah, Stephen. She's gone." He sat silently for a couple of minutes, then reached out to wrap an arm loosely around Stephen's shoulder.

There were soft steps approaching them, and Roger looked over his shoulder to see Peter watching them.

'He okay?' Peter mouthed silently.

Roger shrugged, looking a little helpless.

Peter nodded and crouched down before Stephen, who was so tightly wedged into the far corner of the sofa, there was no room beside him. He didn't speak at all, just laid a warm hand over Stephen's icy, frantically twisting fingers, which stilled immediately.

It took minutes before some of the warmth from Peter and Roger began to seep into Stephen, but they both felt it when it did. His jaw relaxed and his skin started warming up, and then, without warning, he began to cry. Silently, except for the odd gasp of breath and the rocking of his narrow, hunched shoulders.

Roger pressed closer, his arm still around Stephen's shoulder, and gently squeezed it under his hand.

And Peter knelt down properly and after a moment's hesitation, wrapped his arm around Stephen's shoulder over Roger's and drew the shuddering figure close.

When Stephen's head fell against his chest and his tears began to soak into Peter's sweater, Roger slid off the sofa to his knees, and staying close to Stephen, he felt Peter's long arm around his own waist, cocooning the three of them in a tight circle.

They stayed like that for an indeterminate length of time, until Stephen was completely wrung out and exhausted from crying, the way you get no matter how much you feel you need to keep pouring your soul out.

Peter's sweater was soaked with tears, but he patiently held on - to both of them - until Stephen raised his head of his own accord, sniffed and cleared his throat.

"Shit, I'm sorry," he muttered in a tear-roughened voice, not wanting to meet Peter's eyes, or Roger's, which were looking at him with nothing but sympathy.

"Hey, buddy. Nothing to be sorry about." Roger ruffled the back of Stephen's hair, smiled a little, and couldn't help but think that he'd never seen Stephen look more human and genuine than now, with red-rimmed eyes, wet cheeks and his hair a complete mess. Over the years, he'd become so used to Stephen trying to come off as cool and efficient, and only seeming uptight and hopeless in the process, because he continued to fail at being someone he wasn't. Roger wasn't sure he really, truly knew his oldest friend at all. Maybe that would finally change.

Peter watched the two of them, and something came loose in his chest. When they'd first arrived here, flyboy had seemed more of a drag than Fran. Like a puppy which kept following you around and wouldn't be shaken off, and which you had to save from every stray cat and its own stupidity wherever you went. If he was honest, he hadn't liked flyboy at all. And it wasn't just his hopelessness, but there was more than a touch of envy there. Envy of all the years he'd had with Roger around. Years Peter himself wouldn't have. Years he would have made much better use of than flyboy had. Time he wouldn't have wasted.

He looked at Roger - blue eyes full of sympathy and more than a touch of confusion - and realized for the first time that maybe, just maybe, he was falling completely crazy in love with him.

Roger returned his gaze. Smiled very slightly, and there was a glint of sympathetic tears in the corners of his own eyes as well.

And Peter was sure.

Hearing his own voice rough and husky, Peter said, "Come on, there's something we need to do." He stood and held out a hand to Stephen, and the other to Roger.

They both took them, rose, and followed as if they knew what he was talking about. While Stephen's grip on Peter's hand had been brief and loose, Roger had squeezed his hand firmly, and it had made Peter's heart jump a little.

When they were almost at Frannie's grave, Stephen said, "Do you have the keys to the downstairs stores?"

"Yeah, hang on," Peter dug the keychain from his pocket and handed it to him.

"Thanks." Stephen went to the florist just across and unlocked the door.

Roger and Peter stayed behind.

"He's coping, you know." Roger smiled.

"Yeah." Peter smiled back at him, still high on the remembered warmth of Roger's hand in his. "Looks like flyboy's got a few surprises up his sleeves yet."

When Stephen came back a few minutes later with a large white oleander and a little hand shovel, they stood back and let him plant it on the grave.

Then he sat down by it, talking quietly under his breath, and they walked away to give him and Frannie privacy.

"Do you suppose we ought to bring that sofa upstairs? He seems to like it, I've seen him there before." Peter mused.

Roger grinned. "Yeah. I think it's the homey fire-place setup he likes, too. Maybe we can get the sofa and one of those kitsch heaters that look like fires."

"Good idea." Peter looked down at him where they stood behind the escalator. "I actually think _he_ was the one wanting to set up home rather than Frannie."

"I know." Roger snorted. "Stephen's always wanted this little cocoon, and kept telling himself Frannie wanted the same thing, but she just felt trapped. She's never felt happy in one place too long."

Peter's eyes were still on Roger's face when he said, "I don't really mind a cocoon."

"Same here." Roger smirked at him. "It all depends on who you're cocooned with."

"Yeah." Peter raised a hand, hesitated for a moment, then brushed his knuckles lightly against Roger's cheek.

Closing his eyes with a soft purr, Roger swayed on his feet, towards Peter.

"I don't much care where I am, you know." Peter whispered the words, because his lips were very close to Roger's ear when he leaned in. "Just so long as you're there too."

"Oh, I'll be there, baby," Roger assured him, raising his eyes. "Just try and get rid off me."

Peter smiled, his eyes dropping to Roger's lips. "Now why would I want to do that?" And then he kissed Roger, soft and sweet and like he'd never stop.

* * *

Stephen sat beside Frannie's grave, just talking. Just as if she was there to listen. Then he fumbled in his chest pocket and brought out the pair of wedding rings he'd shown her a few weeks ago; she'd told him no, it wouldn't be right.

But maybe _she_ had been. Had been right about them. While he kept carrying them around with him like an idiot, hoping she'd change her mind at the drop of a hat. It was time to let go. He reached out and pushed the two rings into the soil, just below the surface, covering it up again with leaves. "Goodbye, Frannie," he said then, standing up and brushing fake leaves from his pants.

When he went looking for Peter and Roger, it didn't take him long to find them. He watched them kiss for a minute, and somehow, it felt good. Made the whole mess they were in worthwhile. Made the sun shine again, if not for him. He figured he could be happy standing in the shade and looking out at it.

"Guys," he said quietly.

They parted, looking more than a little flustered and sheepish.

"Why don't I go up and make lunch, and then you can do... whatever." Stephen was actually smiling.

Peter and Roger exchanged a look. Made a silent agreement. Roger laughed nervously.

"Why don't we all go up and eat, flyboy?" Peter suggested.

"And then come back and find a video to watch instead of, you know... the static?" Roger added.

Stephen nodded, still smiling. "Or we could go ice-skating." When they both looked at him with some surprise, he added, "Don't worry. I'll show you how."

Peter laughed out loud. "You'll show us how, huh?"

Roger grinned. "He's a devil on the ice, baby."

Stephen flushed with pleasure.

And Peter, with one arm around Roger, just smiled. "All right," he said.

Which was exactly how they felt. All three of them.

THE END

  
© and ™ of characters, locations, and some story lines - George A. Romero and possibly other entities; this story was written solely for the entertainment of other fans; no profit is made and no harm or infringement intended.


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